


So Many Silent Sorrows You'll Never Hear From Again

by Shadowstar



Series: The Other Side of the Rainbow [4]
Category: Supergirl (TV 2015), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Derek Hale is Stiles Stilinski's Anchor, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Past Character Death, Stiles Has Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-28 23:24:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8466943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowstar/pseuds/Shadowstar
Summary: Things are getting better, but now Stiles is starting to see dead people.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fourth part, finally. Title inspired by Through the Ghost by Shinedown. This one took a bit longer b/c of how busy I’ve been, and then I hit a snag on how I wanted this one to go. I rewrote the first part of this part several times before I finally got it right. And then I cut a chunk out of the bottom because I realized I’d inadvertently started on the next part.   
> **Unbeta’d** ; please send any concrit or noticed mistakes to my inbox. Plz and thx.
> 
> **Trigger warning for description of a character having a panic attack.**

Training with Zatanna has been… interesting, to say the least.

Since he finally made the breakthrough almost a week ago, his ability to bend matter, to change things, has come along nicely. He knows that he’s nowhere near ready to do the portal-thing that Zatanna has had to do, herself, on numerous occasions; she is a busy performer, and has a magic show to perform almost nightly in other parts of the country. It wears her out for several hours, and usually after she arrives after a busy night, she will sit and watch him as he practices rather than teaching him anything new. 

On top of that, there have been a couple days where she hasn’t been able to get away; her apologetic voice on the phone is so _very_ Kira it tugs at his heart strings and makes him miss the kitsune all the harder for it. But Zatanna is far from being anything like Kira in other ways, too. Like the dark, steady silences she will sometimes fall into, eyes distant as she remembers her training to teach him, in turn. Or, really, the way she sometimes grabs black coffee and chugs it like it’s going out of style, where Kira won’t even _touch_ coffee.

It’s little things that emphasize the differences between his friend and her magical superhero counterpart.

That makes two people now that look like people he knows. Or, used to know; he really, truly doesn’t know how to classify Derek anymore. The man he was in love with who left? Something like that.

Other than Superman—who has told him once or twice when he’s visited to call him Clark, but it’s so far beyond _awkward_ , he just _can’t_ —Kara, Alex, Hank, Zatanna, and Wynn, there are only a few that he’s interacted with on a regular basis.

His favorite of the people he sees daily is the nurse who reminds him of Derek. It’s in her stature, her no-nonsense way of handling things, the way she bulldozes even Hank into getting treatment. Her eyes, too, are that same bright green hazel, shifting and changing with her mood, ready to be fiery if someone isn’t listening, or soft around the edges if she’s just found him in the middle of the night, wandering the quiet building after a nightmare.

Oh, yeah; he still has nightmares. Like that was something he really, truly wanted to continue with. It’s been a while since he’s had them regularly like this, not since last year after the sacrifice, during the whole mess with the nogitsune.

But the nurse is kind enough to sit with him, sometimes in complete silence, warm and kind and working on paperwork while he sips at a cup of tea or water or even sometimes milk.

The heartbreaking part of his knowing her, though, is her name. It shreds his insides, reminds him of his failures, of the night that created his nightmares.

Her name is Nurse Hale, but she demands she call him Laura.

It’s hard to reconcile her—warm and alive and whole—with the jaggedly cut body he’d found outside the burned husk of the Hale house, buried ceremonially and then _desecrated_ when he and Scott were jackasses and accused Derek of killing his own older sister, his Alpha.

They hadn’t known that then, of course. Still, it is definitely something he feels absolutely horrible about now, in hindsight, where everything is 20/20.

But his favorite nurse is Laura, and she tends to be his general favorite person around the building. She doesn’t push, doesn’t ask the questions that others do. And by others he means Wynn, because the man finds it supremely fascinating that he’s come from a different reality that has _no_ superheroes, only supernatural beings that really, really want to kill him.

That is the conversation he learns that Barry Allen—Silver Age Flash, himself—is apparently _also_ in a different universe. Because _that_ makes total sense.

Tonight, though, is no different than all the other nights that he’s found her sitting in the cafeteria, going over paperwork and charts from physicals of various personnel. The table is in a back corner, and the lights are dimmed in difference to the fact that there are literally only a handful of people still in the building—emergency personnel who don’t tend to see much action, apparently, according to Laura—to barely glow over her bent dark head. The only real sound in the café-cafeteria-whatever is the shuffling of papers, and his own occasional twitching.

Finally, she sighs, reaching over to press her hand to his wrist, and his bouncing leg goes still.

“You’re working yourself up again,” she tells him, not even looking at him as she flips to another page before signing off on the chart. She closes it, sets it aside, and grabs another one.

“I… can’t help it,” he sighs, slumping in his seat, feeling exhausted; exhausted from the anxiety of wondering if he can _actually_ manage to get home, the anxious worry that gnaws at the pit of his stomach as he worries whether his pack is okay, the deep-seated fear that his magick won’t be strong enough before someone gets hurt and he won’t even know because he’s _here_.

“So, talk to me, then,” she orders, looking up at him finally, giving his wrist a squeeze, setting aside her charts. Giving him her full attention, and he doesn’t know if that’s such a good idea, here. “Tell me what’s on your mind. Maybe talking will help.”

His mind flashes back to Miss Morrel and he snorts, a shudder rushing through him. Her hand tightens on his wrist, her eyes narrowing; not at him, not exactly. His reaction is a tell, apparently. He’s become so open, here, and it makes everything inside him twist; he shouldn’t be so trusting, but how can he _not_ trust these people?

“Sorry, the last time I talked to someone I…” How does he explain this without digging himself a hole? “I was in an asylum because I thought being in there would protect my friends, but it only made things worse,” is what he finally settles on, his voice going rough at the end, memories of the struggle, the poison, the knowledge that he was fighting a losing battle.

“Well, you’re not in danger of hurting anyone but yourself from lack of sleep, here, kiddo,” she tells him, concern in every line in her face. He can see traces of Cora, suddenly; it’s the set of her jaw, the shape of her Derek-like eyes. Siblings, clearly, but it’s so _weird_ to know that this is _not_ the Laura Hale from his own universe.

“I don’t know how talking about my nightmares from memories from a year ago _helps_ ,” he tells her, rubbing his free hand over his face wearily. Finds himself falling back on the old nervous habit of chewing at the side of his thumb, until she pulls his hand from his mouth, holding onto it with a surprising strength.

“Try,” she orders, flatly, and he really can’t help but gape at her for a moment, only to burst into tired, near-hysterical laughter a second later. Her eyebrows disappear towards her hairline, mouth twisting in non-amusement, eyes informing him that he had better start talking _yesterday_.

So this is what it was like to have a big sister. Jesus holy _hell_.

“S-sorry,” he manages, trying desperately to get his hysteria under control. “Just… You. You remind me of someone,” he tells her, lips pulled up in the corner at the thought. “Or, rather, the way he _used_ to be,” he has to amend; Derek had been order-y like that towards the end of his time as an Alpha, but he hadn’t been that way when he’d returned from… wherever he’d taken Cora. 

“This sounds like someone who means a lot to you,” she muses, eyebrows still up near her hairline.

The observation has him going quiet, the familiar tight feeling in his chest as he thinks of Derek—apparently his anchor, and that would _never_ cease to be something like agony to him—and he can’t quite meet her eyes anymore.

“He does. He’s… My focus for my magick,” he tells her on a sigh, not sure why he’s admitting it to her, but feeling deep in the center of his being that it was, actually, okay to tell him about it. Even more surprising is when he finds his mouth moving, his vocal cords and breath making the noises of words that spill out of him. “We didn’t always get along, and we didn’t always trust each other, but somehow… I fell in love with him, and he became one of the most important people in my life.”

Her eyes go soft, the lines of her face becoming something warm and reassuring, encouraging. And he wants to keep talking, to tell her all about Derek, the little brother he doesn’t think she has here. So, he does.

“He’s stubborn and broken, but he always listens to me. He has changed a lot in the time I’ve known him. He’s become a lot… softer, I guess. He’s been through a lot of really terrible things, from losing his entire family to being de-aged by the woman who did it, but he’s still _good_. At the core of him, he’s a good man.” It feels meaningless, the words; doesn’t feel like they quite encompass everything that is Derek Hale. Which is, of course, why his mouth continues to move, words continuing to spill out of him.

“When I was… When I wasn’t myself, the thing in me…it knew. It knew all of me, every little dark place in my mind, but I was still able to trick it, able to give them a message. I used a chess board for it, like when I was trying to explain everything to my dad, and I labelled the king—both times—as Derek.” He still isn’t sure how no one else seemed to mention that little factoid; even his _dad_ hadn’t said a word about who he put as the king on his board, the most important piece.

“Derek?” There is something in her voice that has him looking up at her, lifting his head from where it had remained bowed under the weight of his admissions. There is an unreadable expression on her face, something almost blank and painful.

“Y-yeah,” he manages, brow furrowing, studying her. Wondering.

But the moment passes, her face clearing, and the soft look returning to her face. There is something almost like thoughtfulness at the edges, too. Assessment, putting him under the microscope. There is also something else, there, in her eyes that he can’t quite put his finger on. Doesn’t try to, either, because she’s speaking before he can ask about it.

“His last name—that’s why you reacted to mine the way you did,” she muses, watching him closely. A sharpness in her eyes has him squirming, his cheeks warming, making a grin spread over her face.

“Maybe,” he grunts out, almost petulantly, causing her to bark out a bright, sharp laugh. It has warmth spreading through him, proud to have eased the odd atmosphere that had fallen over them.

“You are so _easy_ ,” she crows, poking at his arm after releasing his wrist. But the she sobers, both of her hands folding around his, holding them tightly on the tabletop between them. “But I bet you haven’t said a word to—Derek.”

He swallows, convulsively, wanting to shrink away from her sharp, knowing gaze. The closest thing he can do is duck his head, studying the way her hands hold onto his, offering him a much-needed lifeline.

The length of the silence is probably answer enough; still, his tongue feels weighted down by the simple truth that is nagging at him, the whispered self-promise twisting in the back of his mind like a sneering tease.

“No,” he finally manages to tell her roughly, pained, still not looking at her.

“You’re going to tell him when you get back.” There is a surety in her words that has him looking up at her, blinking at the determination on her face. “And you _are_ going to get back; Zatanna is a good teacher, and you’re a good student. You’re _strong_ , Stiles. You can do it.”

“At least someone has faith that I will,” he grumbles, squirming. He wasn’t dissing on Zatanna; the mage had definitely been more than sure that he had the strength—and then some—to be able to get himself home; the only thing was, he needed to hone it. To actually _learn_ how to use it, rather than fumbling blindly as he had to get himself here, in the first place. But he definitely didn’t feel like he could, half the time; that it didn’t feel like he was making _any_ progress at all.

“You _will_.” And the words are literally _growled_ at him, deep and rumbling and vibrating between them in a way that he has _never_ heard from anyone here.

It’s the growl of a werewolf. And, fuck, _what_? No, no way. They didn’t exist here; he’d asked Zatanna, who had asked a source of her own—he has a sneaking suspicion that it was Doctor Fate—and she had reassured him that the magick that was the cause of lycanthropy in his universe did not exist here. 

It is the familiar furrowed eyebrows and narrowed eyes that pull him back to reality, reminding him of where he is at the moment, and he finds himself heaving a soft sigh.

“I’m going to _try_ ,” he tells her, because he has no way of actually making the promise stick. Making sure that it was more than a promise, at least not right this second.

She breathes out a long-suffering sigh of her own, something fond and sad in her face.

“At least there’s _that_ ,” she muses to him, finally drawing away from him. “You should try to get some sleep, kiddo; you have practice tomorrow and you don’t want to fall asleep on Zatanna.”

He cringes at the reminder; apparently, everyone had heard about the one time that had happened. The resulting soaked clothing, Hank’s echoed yelling about ruined electronics, and his own apologetic face had been gossip fodder for _days_. Luckily, that had been near the beginning of his training, and he hasn’t had an incident like that again.

Not yet, at least.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles as he gets up and turns to leave. “Goodnight, Laura,” he remembers to call over his shoulder just as the door is closing behind him.

She doesn’t even look up at him when she waves him off, already buried back into her charts.

*=*-*=*

After that late night conversation with Laura, things… get strange.

Not get strange, that isn’t the correct turn of phrase; shit was _already_ strange. No, it just gets downright _weird_ after that. For one, there is a soldier who tends to follow him between his guest quarters and the café-cafeteria-whatever. He never catches sight of the person’s face; it’s disconcerting to know that there is someone—someone who is bigger than Superman, than Hank, built like a goddamn _wall_ —following him, but he’s been assured and reassured by Alex many times over that it’s nothing to worry about.

Except telling him not to worry just _makes_ him worry, even more than he’d been to begin with. Especially with the number of times he stops and turns, trying to catch a glimpse of the man, only to find that the man has fucking _ghosted_. Fucking disappeared into thin air, like Stiles is losing his mind. The only thing that reassures him that he’s not, in fact, imagining things is that Alex tends to nod past him, and Kara will wave, at the ninja-man.

He’s taken to calling the illusive man ‘Ninja’ because it makes it easier for him to cope.

There is also a woman with blonde hair who tends to disappear randomly when he walks up to the hub of activity at the DEO; always with papers, or a reason to walk away. Hank explained that it was an assistant, once, and left it at that before telling him to get the hell out of his face and to take Wynn with him. The sight of her nags at him, most especially the way she walks and moves; predatory and quick, with an easy grace that has led to him calling her Cat in his head because she moves kind of like a big cat.

And then there is Brunette. He calls her that because she blends in with the other dark-haired women she works with, but she is a face that he doesn’t like to think about. He’s actually seen it, several times, laughing and grinning amongst others in the café-cafeteria-whatever. She is almost always a part of the team that Alex puts together anytime there’s an alien threat the DEO handles that Supergirl doesn’t.

And, okay. Ninja, Cat, and Brunette alone in each of their separate parts would maybe be okay to deal with. It’s nothing new, nothing but vague sightings out of the corner of his eyes that he catches in passing. It’s nothing that should make his skin prickle with unease, nothing that should make him want to crawl out of his skin. But it _is_ making him wary and scared and worried.

He just isn’t sure what he’s worried about, exactly. The three of them seem to work in different departments, doing different things, with no way of being able to interact with him, or each other. They’re passersby to his presence here, nothing more and nothing less.

But then, _then_.

He’s walked into the café-cafeteria-whatever, eyes scanning over the lunch crowd to see if Zatanna is in here because the magician is running _late_ , and then he sees them. Cat has her head thrown back as she laughs, pounding a flat hand against the tabletop. Ninja is sitting right beside her, and he can see the corner of a bright white grin in a dark face, lips moving vaguely as Cat clutches at her sides, seemingly unable to breathe with whatever Ninja is telling her. Brunette is sitting with her back to him, leaning easily forward, shoulders hunched in the way she’s probably got her arms leaning on the table. And, really, the icing on the cake is Laura, right there amongst the three of them, sitting between Brunette and Cat, grinning bright and sharp as she watches Ninja practically _torment_ Cat with his words.

He remembers, suddenly, bright and clear with sharp, painful intensity, the feeling of water in his shoes, looking down at the dark face that is now turned towards him. Ninja hadn’t been grinning, then; his face had been blank, eyes glazed over, _dead_. Remembers his shaking hand pressing to a trembling, wet shoulder and wishing he could do more, that Derek would _let_ him do more. The sound of settling water, quiet murmurs of grief, and Cora’s broken sobs echoing over the water-filled loft.

Boyd. It was fucking. It was _Boyd_ , sitting there and grinning and joking and making Cat laugh and gasp for breath.

Cat, whose hair is cut short, her face more severe, but it’s _her_. Bright bombshell who’d had a thing for bright red lipstick and toothy, feral grins. He remembers her body, limp and discolored and stiff and the smell of decay from the still-open wound from hip to sternum that had killed her, he remembers the burial. He remembers pressing his hand to Derek’s shoulder then, too; wishing he could hug him, take away his pain like a werewolf, but knowing this was a pain that _couldn’t_ be taken, not like that.

Cat, with all her predatory movements, graceful and deadly, is Erica. Sweet, lost _Erica_ , who’d died before they could save her, even when they’d spent all summer looking for her, he and Scott.

It seems like a signal, then, for Brunette to turn. To follow Laura’s curious eyes, and Ninja’s bright grin, and Cat’s raised brows. There is a heart-shaped face and deep dimples and more bright brown eyes, eyes that were closed forever because of _him_. He has brief snatches of memory, of an Oni running her through, bright red against the corner of her mouth, the sick, _twisted_ satisfaction of the Nogitsune when he’d successfully splintered their pack with the death of Scott’s first love, Lydia’s best friend, and only person Stiles had ever confided in about Derek.

It feels like his world is breaking down around him at the sight of her, her dimples disappearing in concern, the sound of the crowd becoming a muted rush over the blood pounding in his ears. His chest is tight, squeezing, and he can’t seem to get enough air in. He feels numb, almost cold, stumbling back, trying to get away from the four dead faces that swim in front of him, moving towards him like through a pond. His throat works, trying to tell them to stay away, trying to yell, to declare his disbelief at being _tortured_ with his dead friends, but nothing comes out of him but a rush of air.

He turns, he stumbles, he moves. He pushes past people, shoving and not caring, eyes not quite seeing where he’s going. He’s cold, he needs air, he can’t breathe. He can’t move right, stumbling in jerking motions that cause him more harm and harm to those who try to catch him. He thinks he hears someone saying not to touch him, maybe hears familiar voices telling them to leave him be. He’s panting for air when he finally falls to his knees, familiar gravel beneath them and digging in through the sweats, and there is sunshine here but it’s not touching him, feels even colder now than he had a moment ago.

Warm hands press against him, rubbing and soothing, and a semi-familiar voice murmurs deep and low in his ear. Encouraging nonsense that slowly breaks past the sound of blood rushing through his ears, and slowly, _slowly_ , he finally manages to come back to himself. Comes back to discover he is leaning heavily against a broad shoulder, near hyperventilating as he tries to catch his breath as he comes back from the panic attack. His lips feel numb, his face tight, cheeks wet. The smell of sunshine and laundry detergent push through the smell of exhaust and hot tar, giving him a clue as to who has strong arms that feel like two steel bars wrapped around him.

“Stiles?” The voice is a little louder, now, unsure but gentle. The hand on his back continues to rub along his spine, encouraging him to continue to breathe, soothing and pressing warmth into his cold, clammy skin.

“Yeah,” he croaks, swallowing through a throat that feels like sandpaper. He feels like he’s been in this position before, and he would laugh if he doesn’t just feel completely, utterly drained.

“What happened?” At least Superman doesn’t ask if he’s alright.

“Dead people walking,” he manages, grunting the words out because he can’t quite form anything else at the moment. It’s going to take several hours before he can breathe without feeling the catch in his chest, feel like there isn’t a vice around him. It’s going to take _days_ for him to be able to find even ground again.

There is a long pause, and he’s sure that those particular words were not ones that Superman had thought to be the answer. There is a gust of a sigh over the top of his head, and the shoulder under his cheek sags as though under a great weight. Taking on the guilt of the world, just like Derek does. He would hit the Man of Steel if he didn’t want to spend the next two months recovering from a broken hand.

“More counterparts.” It’s not a question, and Stiles would applaud the man’s correct assumption, but that would require moving and he just. He really doesn’t want to do anything that tiring right this second. He grunts out a soft sound of agreement, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. They remain closed, even through Superman shifting to a more comfortable sitting position, his hold never loosening.

He wants to ask why Superman is here, in civilian clothing by the feel of the soft, well-worn cotton beneath his cheek. He wants to ask how Superman _knew_. But he doesn’t want to break this moment, doesn’t want to give this up quite yet. He’s selfish, he knows it, but he’s too drained to care about how much he doesn’t think he particularly deserves this.

“Didn’t think I would see them here, if ever,” he manages after a long, long silence.

“You must have been very close to them if their appearance affected you like this,” Superman murmurs, soft and thoughtful, shifting again so that the bands of steel holding him are loose and warm, the hand on his back pressing rather than rubbing now. Tucking him close, just under the bigger man’s chin.

It makes him feel small, helpless, and so fucking _grateful_ to this… this _god_ who would take the time to comfort him, of all people.

“To one of them, yeah. But I. I watched… Their deaths were all violent and traumatic and I saw their bodies afterwards.” He stumbles over his words, breathing them into Superman’s throat, imagining for just one single, split second that he’s talking to _Derek_. But the hum above his head brings him back to reality.

He’s still so confused, but they’re questions for later when he’s not quite so stabbed through and bleeding out emotionally.

“I’m sorry, Stiles.” There’s honest regret in Superman’s voice, and it incites the urge in him to pat the man on the shoulder. To remind him the world is not violent, that no one is killed senselessly, to say only good things exist. It’s ridiculous, knowing what he does about the superhero, but the urge is still there.

“Yeah,” he sighs, because what else can he say? What words could he give to the superhero nicknamed The Big Blue Boy Scout about death and losing friends and acquaintances to a town hell-bent on killing every single person left to fight against it?

All he’d wanted was to survive senior year. All he’s ever wanted was just to _stay alive_. That hasn’t changed, nor will it. It _can’t_. The slap in his face, though, was not something that he’d expected. Even worse, he’s sure that now he’s seen them, he’s going to see them _everywhere_ , like how he now interacts with Laura on a regular basis. He isn’t sure what to do with that thought, though. Whether he feels relief or that awful, painful tightening again, thinking about saying hi to three faces who belong to three people he saw dead, two he _watched_ die.

“Will you be okay here? I can take you to Metroplis, where you hopefully won’t be triggered,” Superman suggests, throwing it out there and sounding rather like this is an option he should definitely take if he doesn’t want to be _kidnapped_.

It actually makes his lips twitch, thinking about being essentially _kidnapped_ for his own good by Superman, of all people.

But more than that, he thinks about it. He thinks about the feelings churning under his skin, beneath his sternum. Takes in the lingering tightness, the way his heart still pounds and aches against his too-tight ribs. The way his skin feels like it’s been stretched thing over his frame. These are all familiar feelings after a panic attack, though. They have nothing to do with the idea, the thought, only they have _everything_ to do with it. Superman worrying over his mental health is sweet and just a little heartbreaking because it shouldn’t be something that anyone has to worry about.

It’s been a year since Allison, Erica, and Boyd. There should be some distance there, and yet he had seen them and he’d been taken right back to the moment of their deaths.

He wonders, not a little sympathetically, if this is what _Lydia_ feels every time she screams. This echo of de ja vu. The feeling of knowing, of seeing, and then _reliving_ it.

“No,” he finally tells Superman, voice soft and rough. “No, I need… I should stay here. I’ll…” He can’t say he’ll be okay, because he’s not sure he _will_ be. But he needs to face it.

Needs to face, especially, Allison. Her ghost, her lookalike. Needs to face the death of his friend, and remember again why he needs to go home.

“Alright. But if you need anything, don’t… I’ll be here, okay?” And Superman is so earnest, so unbelievably honest, it almost _hurts_. How was it possible for someone to be so jaded, but so damn _innocent_ at the same time?

How does he tell Superman that he can’t be saved?

“Thanks,” he sighs in return, closing his eyes against the bright sunshine and the soft breeze and the warmth.

Neither of them speak again for the remainder of the time they’re on the roof.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://pinkybitesu.tumblr.com).


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